Best Friend's Girl
by allthingsdecent
Summary: This is the Huddy fic version of a lump of coal in the stocking: My first ever fic where the obstacle to House and Cuddy's love is...Wilson! [Insert dramatic music] Hang onto your hats, Huddy Nation. I promise it will end well.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, deep cleansing breaths everybody. All my stories are 100% FDA-certified Huddy, but I always put an obstacle in the way. In this case, the obstacle is in the form of—wait for it—Wuddy. If that thought is just too horrifying for you to handle, so be it. I personally think Wuddy makes more sense than Luddy, but maybe that's just me. So the first part of this story is exclusively from Wilson's perspective. It show his mindset and how could do something like this to House (he's definitely the bad guy in this story, but hopefully you won't **_**totally**_** hate him). **

**The next (and final) part will jump around in perspectives more. Sorry about the cliffhanger, too. Worst Christmas fic ever? ;) - atd**

_This is the story of how James Wilson wanted the girl, got the girl, and lost the girl. But if he was really going to be honest with himself, she was never his to begin with. _

All his life, he'd been the nice guy—the designated driver, the wingman, the giver of pep talks, the shoulder to cry on. If there were two slices of cake left, he would give the larger slice to someone else. If a lane was blocked on the highway, he'd slow down to let two cars get in front of him. That was just his nature. No wonder he was best friends with Gregory House. Giver and taker. Lock and key.

But he never saw Lisa Cuddy in those terms. Not at first at least.

As far as he saw it, both he and House wanted her. And he assumed she liked them back, in equal but different ways. House was the bad boy she wanted, despite herself, and he was the nice guy she might actually see a future with. (It was _him_, after all, not House, she had approached about possibly fathering her child.) It was a battle between equals. May the best man win.

He first realized that his assumptions were wrong when she and House kissed. It wasn't the fact of the kiss that surprised him—in truth, he was surprised that hadn't happened sooner. It was the circumstances behind it: Not in a moment of heated passion, in the middle of one of their infamous fights, but at a moment of vulnerability and reflection. Of course, it was possible that House was just taking advantage of Cuddy's fragile state of mind. But if so, why didn't he seal the deal? Why did he stop after "only a kiss"?

And House, of course, master deflector that he was, insisted the kiss meant nothing—sexual attraction meets opportunity, end of story, he said. He practically demanded that Wilson ask out Cuddy himself. So Wilson had marched down to Cuddy's office, fueled by a bit of jealousy, for sure, and made his move. Had she merely refused him that day it would have been bad enough. But it was worse. She didn't even take his proposition seriously. The thought of dating him hadn't even crossed her mind. As far as Cuddy was concerned, Wilson was a conduit to House, nothing more. Not a man, but a matchmaker.

So he tucked away his own desire for her, gallantly stepped aside, and dedicated himself to making his two best friends come clean about their feelings for each other—which was so very _him_, when you think about it. It was exhausting, too. So much denial, so many artificial road blocks, so many lost opportunities. And then House had his hallucination and his breakdown and suddenly . . . he was gone.

At first, Wilson hadn't seen this as _his_ moment of sexual attraction meets opportunity. He was very upset about House and so was Cuddy. It was natural they would spend time together, consoling each other, replaying the events of the past few months, wondering how they had missed the signs.

And then one night, a switch of sorts just flipped inside him. He was meeting Cuddy at a bar after work (she knew that he and House had spoken on the phone that day, and wanted a full debriefing) and he saw the envious looks of other guys at the bar—so _he_ was the lucky bastard meeting her—and he thought, Why NOT me?

Back in his high school days, he had often used his "sensitive guy" persona to get the girl. It worked this way: Typical teenage jerk does a girl wrong. Caring James Wilson swoops in to console her, all the while angling to get his hands under her blouse. It was surprisingly affective.

That had never been his intent with Cuddy. In his mind, she was already off-limits. She already belonged to House. (Although that first night, the night he dropped House off at Mayfield, she had wept in his arms, her breasts pressed up against his chest. "I just had no idea he was in so much pain," she kept saying. "I should've seen it.")

But as he approached her tonight at the bar—this beautiful, strong, sexy woman, sitting alone, waiting for him—the same thought kept creeping into his head: Why was he conceding Cuddy to House? When was the last time House sacrificed anything for him? Didn't House just take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it? If Wilson did pursue Cuddy, couldn't he just say he had learned from the best?

Especially now that he was armed with such a potentially explosive piece of information.

#####

He hugged her hello, partly for his own benefit and partly to show off to those envious guys at the bar.

"Cold out there," he said, taking off his coat and rubbing his hands together. He ordered a gin and tonic.

"How he is?" she asked, getting right down to business.

_Don't bother to ask how I am first_, Wilson thought, somewhat self-pityingly.

"He's better," he said. "He's clean. No hallucinations. He hates group therapy but he has a psychiatrist he actually seems to respect."

"A doctor House respects? Next you'll have me believing in unicorns," Cuddy said, with a smile.

"I know! The wonders never cease," Wilson said. "So yeah, all told, he's doing quite well."

"Did you, um, tell him you were seeing me tonight?" she asked. The high school flashback, once again, was vivid: Talking to the pretty girl about the boy she had a crush on.

"No, I forgot to mention it," he said.

"Did my name come up at all?" she asked. She was trying to sound casual, but there was a slight whiff of neediness right around the edges of her voice.

"No but . . ."—he hesitated for a second, because he was about to drop his bombshell—"there's something else House told me."

"Yeah?" she said, taking a cautious sip of her martini. "What's that?"

"He's seeing someone," Wilson said, eyeing her.

"Yeah, you told me. That psychiatrist . . ."

"No. Seeing as in dating," Wilson clarified.

He watched her absorb the news: Shock and dismay that gave way to continued feigned nonchalance.

"Wow. Good for him," she managed to say. "A. . .fellow patient?"

"The sister-in –law of a patient, apparently," Wilson said, still studying her. "Her name is Lydia."

"Wow," she repeated. "I must say, I'm surprised."

"Me too," Wilson said. "Frankly, I think House is a little surprised himself. But it's good for him."

"Yes," she said, shaking her head, as if trying to shake away an unpleasant thought. "I just. . .never expected him to. . ."

"No," Wilson said. "Me neither."

Cuddy began biting on the plastic toothpick that had come in her drink. She was lost in thought for a moment.

Finally, she blurted out: "So do you think that hallucination he had. . .was meaningless?"

"Meaningless?" Wilson said.

"I mean, obviously it wasn't meaningless. But I mean, my role in the fantasy."

Wilson considered that for a second.

"I think House's unconscious desires have not caught up to his conscious ones."

She wrinkled her nose a bit.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," she said.

"I mean, in his fantasy he wants you to be his lover and protector. In real life, he . . . tells you your ass looks big"

Cuddy gave a grim laugh.

"I thought that maybe when he got out of Mayfield. . ." her voice trailed off.

"Maybe what?"

"I thought that maybe he and I would be together. Like, finally no more games, no more lies, no more bullshit. Just two adults in an actual grownup relationship." Then she laughed in a self-deprecating way. "Lydia has clearly thrown a wrench in my theory."

"Counting on House to behave like a normal human being is . . ."

"Ridiculous, I know."

Wilson put on his concerned voice:

"He's just jerked you around so many times over the years. I hate to see you hurt like this again."

"The funny thing is, I had resigned myself to the fact that House I were never going have a relationship," she said. "There was this one day. . .I kind of made my intentions clear. He responded by being a crude jerk, then overcompensating with an overly extravagant gift. When I went to thank him for the gift, he was in his office _with a hooker_. I mean, if that wasn't a sign from the heavens, I don't know what was. That was the day I said to myself, 'Lisa, you got to let him go.'"

"So what changed?" Wilson said.

"All this," Cuddy said. "The hallucination. My role in it. I thought, 'He really does love me. It can't be denied any more.' But now he's sleeping with some new woman. It's like, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 840 times, shame on me, right?"

She chuckled grimly.

Wilson cleared his throat a bit. Glanced at her hopefully.

"Life would be so much easier if you only. . . returned my affections."

She started a bit.

"_What?_"

"I mean…you have to know I've had…feelings for you for quite some time," he said.

"Stop messing with me," she said.

"I'm not," Wilson said. "You really had no idea?"

She looked at him.

"I mean I. . . maybe a few times I caught you looking at me, but I just figured I looked good that day."

"Do you remember that day in your office—the day after you and House kissed?"

"You were messing with me," she said, musingly. "Pretending you were asking me out to get me to own up to my feelings about House." She stopped, suddenly getting it.

"You weren't messing with me then either," she said.

"No," Wilson said.

"Wilson. . . I . . .I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. It's no big deal. It's not like I can't be friends with you. Look, here we are! Friends!" He gave a sheepish smile. "I just. . .wish things could be different, you know? For you and for me. Sometimes I feel like we both spend so much time and energy worrying about House, we forget to worry about our owns needs."

"You know what, Wilson?" Cuddy said. "I think you're right."

She raised her glass. "To worrying about our own needs," she said.

And they clinked.

After that, the conversation turned to other things—work stuff, Rachel's potty training, this new BBC TV show they were both watching. And then Wilson walked Cuddy to her car.

"I had fun," Wilson said.

"Me too," Cuddy said.

"I hope that what I said in there didn't freak you out too much," he said.

"It didn't," she said. And then, much to his shock (and great delight), she leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

"What was that?" he said.

"That was my way of saying, 'Thank you for being a friend.'"

"That felt like more than just a 'thank you for being a friend' kiss."

"I don't know," she said, smiling. "Maybe it was."

######

So they began seeing each other. Their nights out became more like dates, with Wilson picking her up and kissing her goodnight. They talked about House, but less. And then one night, she invited him inside and then invited him into her bedroom and they made love.

For Wilson, sex with Cuddy was . . . revelatory. At first, he had to use his own high school trick—doing complicated math equations in his head—to keep from being the 2-minute man. Eventually, he got more relaxed about things. As for Cuddy? Well, suffice it to say, he never got any complaints.

The day House got out of Mayfield, they began talking about how they were going to break the news to him. On the one hand, sneaking behind House's back was never a good move. On the other, he seemed so vulnerable right now. Newly out of the institution, newly off drugs, still acclimating to life back at his old job, in his old apartment, which clearly still had ghosts for him. (Under different circumstances, Wilson might have asked House to move in with him for a bit. But, of course, that was clearly impossible.)

A week or so after House got home from Mayfield, Wilson and Cuddy lay side-by-side in his bed, discussing their strategy for telling House.

"I think we should do it together," Wilson said.

"I don't know," Cuddy said. "Don't you think he'll feel kind of ambushed? Ganged up on?"

"Yeah, maybe you're right. . ." Wilson said.

They were so deep in conversation, so focused on the best way to break the news, neither heard the key in the front door, nor the footsteps.

And then the door to Wilson's bedroom opened and House was standing there.

"Wilson, you old crone. Why are you asleep at 8 o clock at night?" he said, cheerfully.

Then he saw there was a woman in Wilson's bed.

"Oh shit," he said, flinching and holding his hand in front of his face, in mock dismay.

And then, he looked again, blinked several times, and realized that the woman was Cuddy. His face went white. His mouth hung open. He just stood there, unable able to move his legs.

"Sorry," he finally mumbled.

And he turned and left.

"House!" Cuddy yelled, starting to go after him. Wilson grabbed her arm.

"Let him go," he said.

"We need to talk to him, to explain," she said, somewhat desperately.

"He's better off on his own," Wilson said. "You know how he is. Let him stew for the night. We can talk to him tomorrow."

"I don't know, Wilson. I'm afraid he might do something . . . rash."

"He'll be okay," Wilson said evenly. "I promise."

Cuddy gave him a skeptical look.

"Okay," she said. "If you say so."

"I do," he said. He leaned over to give her a reassuring kiss, but she recoiled a bit.

"What a fucking disaster," she said, putting her head in her hands.

######


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Wilson made his way to House's office and sat down, without being invited.

"Perfect," House grumbled.

"We need to talk," Wilson said.

"No," House said. "Actually, we don't."

"I'm sleeping with Cuddy. That obviously calls for some sort of conversation."

"No, it doesn't," House said. "You just said it yourself. You're sleeping with her. I'm not. End of story."

"At least let me explain."

"Not necessary."

Wilson gave a queasy chuckle.

"Ironically, you were the one who sort of brought us together," he said.

House put his head in his hands and groaned.

"We were both worried about you, spending more time together. One thing led to another. . ."

"I beg you to stop," House said, looking up from his hands.

"Neither of us meant to hurt you. It just sort of…happened. Cuddy's actually quite worried about you."

House snickered.

"Oh, that comes as such a relief."

"I know you're angry," Wilson said.

"I'm NOT ANGRY!" House shouted.

Wilson cocked an eyebrow.

"Clearly you're. . ."

House lowered his voice again, trying to stay calm.

"I'm not angry. I had no claim on Cuddy. A drug-fueled fantasy does not a relationship make. I was out of the picture. You're a guy. You did what guys do. I salute you for finally growing a pair."

"And you think I'm a colossal dick."

"I think you're a guy."

"So we're . . . okay?" Wilson said, cautiously.

"We're fine," House said.

Wilson squinted at him. He wasn't convinced.

"If you want to deck me, my jaw is always here." he said, pointing at his chin. "One good punch and we might both feel better."

"Get out of my office Wilson," House said.

"I really am sorry."

"And I really am busy."

Wilson looked at House's desk. There were no X-rays, no patient files. As far as he knew, House wasn't treating any patients at the moment.

"Okay. . ." he said reluctantly. And he left.

House watched him walk away and then spoke quietly—to the room, to the gods, to no one in particular:  
"But did it have to be _her_?"

####

"Any thaw?" Wilson asked Cuddy. They were sitting together in the cafeteria having lunch, talking about House, as they almost always did.

It had been four days since House had discovered them in bed together and House was behaving in a truly disconcerting way: He wasn't angry. He wasn't acting out. Instead, he was civil, polite, and completely distant.

Several times, Cuddy had tried to start a conversation with him and each time, he answered succinctly and rationally and then walked away.

Yesterday, they had invited him to join them for lunch and he made up some lame excuse about needing to fill out insurance forms. ("He hasn't filled out insurance forms in five years," Cuddy said.)

Now they both looked up and saw him again, holding a tray. They were about to wave him over when he veered in the opposite direction and sat at a table with Lucas and four comely nurses.

Almost immediately, House began laughing, slapping Lucas on the back and bending toward the nurses flirtatiously. His laughter, all the bonhomie at the table, seemed too loud, forced, and very much for their benefit.

"You know what he's doing, right?" Wilson said.

Cuddy sighed.

"He's trying to make us jealous."

"So I guess Lucas is his new best friend," Wilson said, laughing dismissively.

"And I guess I'm supposed to believe that he might actually be interested in those nurses," Cuddy said, sharing his laugh.

They both contemplated the table.

"Lucas is a tool, right?" Wilson said.

"A huge one," Cuddy said, frowning a bit. "Nurse Danielle has a really flat ass. Have you ever noticed that?"

"Like a pancake," Wilson said.

#####

She finally managed to get him alone, a few days later.

He was outside, despite a serious chill in the air, skipping stones near the picnic bench in the park.

"Here you are," she said, sitting on the bench, watching him.

Of course, he was an excellent stone-skipper. The stones skidded gracefully across the water, makings splashes with each successive dip.

For a moment, she felt sad, as she always did when she saw him do something physical. He had been an excellent athlete once, a lifetime ago.

"I don't have clinic duty," House said, searching the ground for another stone. "And my case is under control."

"I know," she said. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Oh wait! I just remembered that I _do_ have a case," he said, pretending to walk away.

"House," she admonished.

My attempts to avoid this conversation with you have reached the end of the road, huh?" he said, ironically.

"Apparently so," she said. "I just want to say. . .I'm sorry."

"I know," he said. He had found a flat and shiny stone. He reared back and threw it a surprisingly long distance. This time, not so much an artful skip as a Hail Mary pass.

He sat down next to her, resigned to his fate.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he said.

"I know there has always been this. . . _thing_ between us," she said. "I'm not going to try to deny that. But it was a roller coaster. Wilson is more like a . . ."

"Really flat road in a suburban cul-de-sac?" House offered.

"I was going to say, merry-go-round. A nice, slow, merry-go-round. Pleasant, no surprises."

"Whatever floats your boat," House said, irritably.

"He's a good man. But I don't have to tell you that," Cuddy said.

"The best," House agreed.

"After your . . . fantasy. . ." Cuddy started, looking at her hands.

"It was a hallucination. Let's call it what it was," House said.

"After your hallucination," she corrected. "I thought maybe it was going to be a turning point for you and me. But then I found out about your … girlfriend at Mayfield."

"How did you even. . .?" Then he shook his head, half annoyed, half impressed. "Of course. Wilson."

"So are you still seeing her?" Cuddy said, trying to make her voice sound breezy.

"No, I'm not still seeing her. I never was seeing her, technically. No man should be held accountable for an affair he has while in a mental institution. Do you blame a drowning man for hanging onto a life preserver?"

"What about Nurse Danielle? I saw you flirting with her." Cuddy realized that her line of question was beyond unfair. But she couldn't help herself.

He smiled at her, knowingly.

"We're having dinner on Friday," he said.

"Really?" she said.

"No, not really," he said. "She has no ass."

"You've always been an ass man," Cuddy said, chuckling.

"Only as part of a whole package," he said, looking at her.

She looked down.

Finally Cuddy stood up, picked up a stone, and tossed it in the water. Instead of skipping, it sank unceremoniously to the bottom of the pond.

She tried again. Still no luck.

She was banking on the fact that no man, not even one as stubborn as Gregory House, could watch a woman failing at a physical challenge without trying to help her.

"You're doing it wrong," House said finally, as Cuddy suppressed a smile. "First of all, you need to find a flat stone, like this."

He handed her a stone, first wiping off the dirt. "Then, it's all in the wrist. You fling it, you don't chuck it."

He demonstrated the motion.

She attempted to ape him, doing a little better—it skipped once this time.

"Like this," he said, standing behind her and manually moving her arm in the proper way. She felt this tiny familiar stir when he touched her.

He demonstrated again.

"Got it?" he said.

A part of her never wanted him to let go, never wanted him to take his arm off of hers.

"I think so," she said. Concentrating hard, she tried on her own, flicking her wrist and bending her elbow the way House had shown her. The stone skipped like a champ.

"Hey, I did it!" she said, with glee.

But when she looked up, he had already begun his slow ascent back to the hospital—limping farther and farther away, until he, like the stone, was completely out of sight.

######

A few nights later, Cuddy met Wilson at a restaurant for dinner.

She was late. She moved purposefully across the room, with the brusque energy of an important woman.

"I'm sorry," she said, giving him a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. "Crazy day."

Then she noticed the martini sitting in front of her.

"Thanks," she said, taking a grateful sip. "I needed this."

She picked up the menu, started to read it, then said, distractedly: "I'm worried about House. He looks tired to me. And thin. Do you think he's been eating? Should we think about getting him something and dropping it off at his place?"

When Wilson didn't respond, she peered out from behind the menu.

He had his arms folded and he was glaring at her.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," he said, irritably

"What?" she said.

"I said, I'm fine. Not that you bothered to ask."

"I'm sorry, I. . what?" Cuddy was still confused.

"Have you ever noticed that all we ever do is talk about House?" Wilson said.

"I wouldn't exactly say that," she said, defensively.

"No. I'm serious. Every single one of our conversations ultimately turns to House. Tonight, you merely dispensed with the pleasantries and went right to your favorite subject."

"I didn't realize, I. . .I'm sorry." Then she gave a tiny smile. "How _was _your day?"

Wilson folded his arms a little tighter across his chest, ignored her.

"Are you happy with me?" he said.

"Happy? Of course I'm happy. . .why wouldn't I be happy?"

"Because we've been dating three months and you still haven't asked me to spend the night. Not once."

"I have a child, Wilson. I can't be expected to. . ."

"I get along great with Rachel," he said. "Always have. So I have to ask myself, is this because of Rachel or because no matter what I say or do, I'll always just be a poor substitute for House?"

"That's not fair!" Cuddy said.

"Isn't it?"

"No. . .you care about House, too. He's something we have in common. You've said so yourself, he's the one who brought us together."

"I just don't want him to be the one who breaks us apart," Wilson muttered.

"He won't be," she said, with feigned confidence.

Wilson looked at her for a second. Then his face softened.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. "I had a bad day. I'm being a jerk. Forget I even mentioned it." He gave an apologetic smile. "How's the martini? Did I order it right this time?"

It had too much vermouth, but she couldn't possibly tell him that.

"It's perfect," she lied.

######

A few days later, Cuddy saw House get into the elevator and made a mad dash to slip in beside him before the doors closed.

"Fancy meeting you here," she joked, slightly out of breath.

"A simple 'hold the elevator' would've been equally effective," House said. "But not quite as good a cardiovascular workout I suppose."

"I was afraid you'd pretend not to hear me," she admitted.

"I think we're beyond the slamming elevator doors in each other's faces stage. Although just barely," he said.

"I'd like to move way beyond it," she said.

"What did you have in mind?" he said. "Annual Christmas cards? Waving at each other in the hallway?"

"How bout dinner tonight?" she offered.

"With you and Boy Wonder? Three's not really company, you know. That was just a TV show."

"I'm not seeing Wilson tonight. He has other plans."

"Don't care," House said. The door opened and he limped toward his office. Cuddy followed.

"I just want us to be friends again," she said, somewhat pathetically.

He stopped walking, faced her.

"We were never actually friends, were we?" he said. "I don't know what we used to be to each other. But it was definitely not just friends."

"Okay then forget the 'again' part," she said. "I want us to be friends. Full stop."

He thought about it for a second.

"You're buying?" he said.

"Of course," she said, beaming at him.

"Alright." He looked at his watch. "I'm ready now."

It was a little past 4 p.m.

"Or how bout I swing my your office at 7?" she said, laughing.

"You're such a killjoy," he said. Then with a smile: "7 it is."

######

Cuddy had to admit it: The difference between dinner with House and dinner with Wilson was night and day.

With Wilson, it was comfortable, easy, and—save for the occasional insecure blow-up about her feelings for House—a bit dull.

With House, it was a heady combination of flirtation, big laughs, and intellectual challenges.

She liked the way she felt with House—a little giddy, on her toes, and super sexy. She never felt more desirable than when she was sitting across from Gregory House, exchanging verbal lobs.

"I love watching you flirt with the waiter to get what you want," he said, teasing her.

"What? I do no such thing!"

He began to mimic her, in a high-pitched voice: "'And if you were to put a little extra avocado on my salad, I promise not to tell a soul.'" He bat his eyelashes.

"I like avocado!" she protested.

"And the waiter likes you flirting with him. It's a win-win."

"Like you never flirt to get what you want," she countered.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he deadpanned.

"How many times has Carla in the lab put your samples at the front of the line because you sweet talked her?"

"What can I say?" House said. "50 year old lab technicians crave my bod."

"At least she doesn't have a flat ass," Cuddy cracked.

"No, it's kind of . . .lumpy," he said. And she threw her napkin at him.

They finished a bottle of wine and then ordered a second one.

After they got their check, House walked her to her car.

"I think this friendship thing might work out," he said, with a grin. "I had a fun."

"So that's it?" she said, disappointed.

He eyed her.

"What else?"

"Rachel is spending the night with my mother. The night is young," she heard herself say. "How about a night cap at your place?"

He scratched his beard, thought about it for a second, drew a nervous breath:

"I'll meet you there," he said.

######

He made her a martini with just the right amount of vermouth and poured himself a scotch on the rocks.

"To friendship," she said, clinking his glass.

They were sitting side by side on the couch. They were both drunk enough that their body language was a little uninhibited, sensual. They spoke closely, their bodies curling toward each other.

The alcohol emboldened House to finally ask what had been on his mind all night.

"So why Wilson?" he said, in a slightly hoarse voice. "Of all the lucky bastards in the world, why my best friend?"

"Because I don't have the hots for him," she admitted.

"That makes zero sense," he said.

"I've had bad luck with men I've had the hots for," she said. "One in particular."

"I'm sorry that I brought you bad luck," he said.

"What makes you so sure I was talking about you!" she teased.

"Weren't you?" he said.

"Of course," she giggled, putting her head on his shoulder. "I perpetually have the hots for you."

"And I perpetually have the hots for you."

With that, inevitably, they found each other's mouths and they were kissing—slightly drunken kisses, hot and thick—and his hands were all over her and every nerve ending in her body was on fire.

They fell back on the couch, both breathing heavily, his mouth on her neck, moving toward her chest, and she was murmuring, "Oh God, yes." And she could feel his dick, huge and hard against her leg, and she had never wanted someone so much in her life, and the desire was welling up inside her, and she was about to get lost in him—impossibly lost in the taste and feel of fucking Gregory House—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he stopped.

"I can't do this," he said, sitting up and physically lifting her off him.

She bolted upright, utterly shocked. Her blouse was almost completely undone and her bra was unhooked. House had to look away from her.

"But. . . I don't understand," she said, almost pleadingly. "I know you want me. I could _feel_ how much you want me."

He closed his eyes.

"I do want you. So fucking badly. But I can't. . .you're Wilson's girl now."

"_What_?" she said.

"He's my best friend," he continued. "Or at least _was_ my best friend. There's a. . .code. I can't explain it."

"That's ridiculous," Cuddy said. "It's never been about Wilson. You know that. I know that. Even Wilson knows that. It's always been about you."

She went to kiss him again, but he held out his hand to stop her.

"Cuddy, I can't."

She stared at him in disbelief. Then she stood up, hooked her bra, began to button her blouse.

"Okay, if that's really what you want," she said.

House put his head in his hands and said nothing.

######

The next night, sitting next to him on her couch (it was video night; fittingly enough, they were watching _Atonement_), Cuddy confessed her sins to Wilson.

"I had dinner with House last night," she said.

"Yeah?" he said uneasily.

"And there's more."

"Did you sleep with him?" he asked, not looking at her.

"No, but I . . . wanted to," she admitted.

He hit pause. Keira Knightley's face, mid-cry, was frozen on the screen.

"What happened? Your conscience got the best of you?" he said, bitterly.

"No, his did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means. . .House wouldn't have sex with me because I'm …your girlfriend."

Wilson shook his head and gave a tiny, bitter chuckle.

"That loyal son of a bitch," he said.

"I can't do this anymore, Wilson," she said, with a sigh. "It's not fair to you. It's not fair to me. And it's not fair to House."

"No, I suppose it isn't," Wilson said.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Me too."

"This is going to sound so, _so _lame," she said. "But I hope we can still be friends. Your friendship means the world to me."

"I'm sure we can work something out," Wilson said, leaning back against the couch glumly. "History has proven that I'm friends with all my exes." And he managed a sheepish smile.

"Good," she said. And she squeezed his hand.

"Too soon," he said.

######

The next day, Wilson wandered into House's office and once again sat down in the chair across from his desk without an invitation.

Before House could tell him to get out, he said quickly: "Cuddy and I broke up."

House blinked.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, evenly.

"I actually believe you," Wilson said. "Cuddy told me what. . . happened between you two."

House looked at him.

"I'm sorry. We'd both had a lot to drink. I swear it didn't go much beyond a kiss."

"I know," Wilson said. "Cuddy told me you. . .put a stop to things. Because of me."

House swallowed a bit.

"I did," he said.

"I confess I found that to be rather . . .ironic," Wilson said.

"How so?"

"We both know I stole her from you," Wilson said.

"Cuddy's no one's property. She's her own woman."

"And she was in love with you. And I knew it. But I seized an opportunity and I took advantage of her vulnerability anyway. I even told her about Lydia."

"I know you did. Impressive move."

Wilson gave a weary smile.

"The thing is, when I think about our friendship, I have this narrative in my head, you know? I like to think of myself as the good friend. The generous one. The one who makes sacrifices."

"Sounds about right to me."

"Really?" Wilson said, his voice catching a bit. "Because all I recall is that I sold you out to Tritter for many complicated reasons, at least one of which was it made _my_ life easier. And then I was willing to let you die to try to save Amber. I stood by and let them mess with your brain—hell, I encouraged it! And now this. It pains me to say this, but out of the two of us, you might just be the better man."

"Take it back," House said. But a barely perceptible smile was playing at his lips.

"I love you, House."

"Shut the fuck up, Wilson."

Wilson gave a sad, relieved laugh.

"So what about Cuddy?" he said.

"What about her?"

"She loves you. She wants to be with you. That much I know for sure."

"So what do I do?" House said.

"I think it's fairly obvious."

#####

The next day, House jammed his cane in the elevator door just as it was about to close.

Cuddy, who was alone in the elevator, smiled at him.

"A simple, 'Hold the elevator' would've sufficed."

"But this was much more dramatic," House said.

"True."

"So I heard the news. . .about you narrowly avoiding becoming the fourth ex-Mrs. Wilson."

"Yeah," Cuddy said, with a tiny laugh.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling. . .optimistic that I'm finally going to get what I really want."

She looked at him hopefully.

"Well, you know what the philosopher Jagger once said," he said.

Cuddy's face fell.

Then he laughed. "Oh fuck it. It's Jagger, not Socrates. What time should I pick you up tonight?"

EPILOGUE

Four months later, Wilson marched into House's office at the end of the day.

House's eyes had been closed (napping?) and his face was a little flushed (a really good dream?).

"Gotta minute?" Wilson said.

"Actually no," House said, his eyes popping open. "Thanks for dropping by!"

"This will only take a second."

Wilson pulled a jewelry box out of his back pocket and displayed its contents—a necklace with a heart charm—to House.

"It's for Sam," Wilson said.

"I assumed it wasn't for me," House said.

"Does this necklace say, 'I'm so grateful to have you back in my life?' or 'I'm already turning into overly-expensive-gift-guy after three dates?'"

"Which do you want it to say?"

"The first."

"Then that's what it says. Goodnight Wilson."

"I also considered earrings. Do you think earrings might be a better choice?"

"Good. Night. Wilson."

Wilson, who had been lost in a kind of internal jewelry debate, suddenly realized something.

"Cuddy's under the desk isn't she?"

With that, Cuddy emerged from under the desk, her hair mussed and her lipstick slightly smeared.

"Hi Wilson," she said, sheepishly.

"Hi Cuddy," Wilson said, not able to suppress a smile.

"For what it's worth, I like the necklace," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Uh, thanks," Wilson said, backing out of the office. "Sorry to disturb you crazy kids. Have a good night."

"Oh, we will," House and Cuddy said, in unison.

THE END


End file.
